


An Indifferent Universe

by not_my_circus



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, Blood, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Fic spoilers following!, Geraskier, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I mean, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Temporary Character Death, Violence, i make it worse soooo, not really tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23470675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_my_circus/pseuds/not_my_circus
Summary: Maybe Geralt should have learned his lesson the last time he made an angry wish.Maybe it'll stick this time"But part of me wonders...what if one of those rare times I forgot to hug him goodbye, or failed to say "I love you," turns out to be the last time I have that chance?Lots can go wrong in an indifferent universe."-Cecil Palmer, Welcome to Night Vale episode 88 (Things Fall Apart)*inspired by a tumblr post (included in notes).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 83
Kudos: 471





	1. nightmares follow you

**Author's Note:**

> Title from:  
> "But part of me wonders...what if one of those rare times I forgot to hug him goodbye, or failed to say "I love you," turns out to be the last time I have that chance?  
> Lots can go wrong in an indifferent universe."  
> -Cecil Palmer, Welcome to Night Vale episode 88 (Things Fall Apart)
> 
> *
> 
> inspired by this tumblr post that made my friend curse me out:  
> https://the-witcher-has-taken-me-over.tumblr.com/post/611391590628507648/if-life-could-give-me-one-blessing-it-would-be-to
> 
> Please let me know of any mistakes!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt heads down the mountain. Jaskier is waiting.
> 
> chapter title:  
> Your nightmares follow you like a shadow. forever.  
> -Aleksandar Hemon, The Lazarus Project

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: blood, death, corpse

The view from the mountaintop is honestly stunning. A sweeping vista of mountain peaks and valleys and Geralt really couldn’t give two shits. He isn't in the business of admiring views. And yet he stands in front of that very view for hours after the rest of the failed dragon hunt party left. He’d heard the last of the Dwarven party noisily leaving the camp around midday. They hadn’t sought him out and he hadn’t bothered to care.

It takes another two hours or so after they leave for Geralt to finally move. And when he does, he’s far from the same as when he started. His anger has drained, leaving him exhausted in an unfamiliar way. There’s no ache in his bones, no burn in his muscles. But there is in his eyes.

He makes it to the now abandoned camp. He doesn’t need to go there - all he brought and still has is on him - but something directs him that way anyway. He refuses to call it hope. But he rounds the rocks and sees an expanse of space barren of anybody. Just the echoes of movement and life.

But the scents remain. He inhales harshly and is sent stumbling. Lilac and gooseberries, cut through with the familiar cayenne and licorice tea - anger and emotional pain - are there but he’s dismissing them before he can even realize it. Because underneath that, is sandalwood and mint. They’re so achingly familiar that having them be so faded sends his instincts reeling. Over the past few years, the on again, off again presence of those had steadily changed into a constant presence. One that clung to Geralt himself.

Of course, standing in the center of the abandoned camp, the only scents other than his own clinging to him are faded lilac and gooseberries, and cayenne and steadily increasing almonds. Yennefer and his own anger having overpowered the sandalwood and mint. But the regret is growing by the second.

The burning in his eyes bites at Geralt and he closes them. For the briefest of seconds, he sees Yennefer, fierce and angry and hurt. But just like the awareness of her lingering scents, it’s gone before he’s fully aware. Instead, all he can see is pleading blue eyes and a defeated slump of shoulders.

Fucking fuck. _Jaskier_.

Of course it’s Jaskier. The one man, one _person_ who had never left, had never waivered, had never doubted him. And Geralt had sent him away.

Gods fucking _shit_.

He has to make this right. Has to try.

The thought is barely registering before he’s moving. Jaskier has _hours_ of a head start. He’s definitely off the mountain by now. If Geralt’s lucky, the bard will have stopped in the town. If he’s not, if he hasn’t stopped-

He chases the thought away with a growl. He can’t afford to think like that, won’t let himself. If he’s not lucky, he’ll make a plan from there.

Having a plan - or at least the outline of the _start_ of one - reenergizes him. He’s tempted to just start sprinting. He’s a Witcher, in theory he could probably sprint down most of this mountain. But he can’t risk injuring himself - that’ll give Jaskier more time to get further away than saved - and he desperately needs to figure out what to say to even start explaining himself to the bard. And he can’t risk losing any indication of Jaskier. The bard could have lost the trail, followed some other path. And if Geralt isn’t careful, he could end up on the wrong side of the mountain. Sure, some of Jaskier’s stuff is with Roach but the bard hadn’t had more than the clothes on his back and his lute when they first met, so Geralt isn’t convinced Jaskier wouldn’t make the decision to just say fuck it and leave his bags.

So he hurries, a near jog, senses constantly scanning the areas around him. He’s done this countless times before and it doesn’t keep his mind from what he doesn’t want to but _needs_ to be thinking about.

He’s rifling through every memory of Jaskier he can dredge up. Every smile, every laugh, every moment of the loud and warm presence beside him. Years, fuck, _decades_ of the man remaining by Geralt’s side. Hundreds of taverns, dozens of songs proclaiming the White Wolf as a hero, a savior. Jaskier pouring himself out again and again and again for Geralt. 

And Geralt isn’t stupid...he isn’t _always_ stupid. He has noticed the things Jaskier has done for him. Maybe not the entirety, the _enormity,_ but it has, on occasion, gotten through his emotionally stunted skull. And he’s made the occasional effort, has reached back in actions. But, as he makes his way further down the mountain, he’s slowly overwhelmed with the realization that, for all his actions, his words have - more often than not - told a very different story.

The thought sinks through him like a brick. How often had he simply ridiculed Jaskier? Belittled everything about the other man? He’d grown to mean it as teasing but what did Jaskier have to compare it to?

Fuck.

He slows. The situation becoming clearer. It’s not just now that he’s going to have to beg Jaskier to forgive him for. It’s so many other times. For all that everyone claims him to be taciturn, he’s said more than enough words to Jaskier for the man to get a very clear message. The wrong message, sure. But that’s not Jaskier’s fault. That’s _Geralt’s_.

_Fuck_.

He starts picking up speed again. Only to immediately go sprawling. For a second he’s sure he’s tripped over some root or rock but then the buzzing at his chest cuts through everything else.

Magic.

He’s on alert the moment the thought registers. Awareness snapping to attention. There’s a soft hum of power around him. There usually is in places like this, places thrumming with a natural magic that’s different than anything else. But there’s something prickly about this. Something pointed.

Unease curls around him.

Something is wrong.

He surveys his surroundings, waiting for some sign, some indication of what has caught his attention, what has sent him to the ground. But all he gets back is anxiety racing through him and an even sharper edge to his desperation to get off this _damned mountain_.

That’s all he needs though. It always is. Even as recently as yesterday, he would have been rationalizing it to himself. Rejecting the idea that fate or destiny was leading him in favor of explaining it as instinct or training or something.

But right now he doesn’t care.

He’s on his feet in a second, glancing around. The surroundings are familiar; he’s at least two thirds of the way down. He’s _so close_. So he takes off, breaking into a dead sprint.

With every step, the unease hums louder, the anxiety beats harder. Something is on this fucking mountain and he doesn’t want to wait to see what it is. That he’s sure of.

Or he is. He is until the ground starts to level out beneath him and he leaves the mountain behind and nothing changes. His senses are still prickling with the sense of _wrongness_ and his heart is still in his throat.

The threat isn’t on the mountain at all.

Just like Jaskier isn’t.

Shit. Fuck. If whatever this is is near Jaskier, Geralt won’t wait to figure out what it is, he’s ready to charge in reckless and thoughtless.

Finally, _finally_ , he breaks through the trees and rounds the bend to where they had all started traveling.

For a moment, Geralt feels nothing but fucking relief, he’s off the mountain, away from that fucking place. He hasn’t found Jaskier but he will.

And then he realizes Roach _isn’t there_.

He flails to a stop, all coordination rushing out of him. Roach isn’t there. He can’t see her. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Frantic, he wheels around, looking every which way, trying to find any sign of her. Maybe she wandered a bit away to graze? Did Jaskier lead her back to town? Did someone take her? Fuck! Where is-

A whinny breaks his racing thoughts. A familiar whinny and his breath rushes out. Roach can’t be far, he’s just got to follow the sound. Placeted, he takes a deep breath.

Something sharp and metallic fills his nose, the scent crashing down on him in a wave. Blood. And a lot of it. Enough that Geralt can barely make out anything else.

Something died nearby and did so somewhat recently. And by the scent of mold mixing in with the blood, it died _painfully_.

Fuck.

Another whinny calls out and Geralt starts forward again, prepared to see whatever monster or murder happened. He hopes that Jaskier didn’t have to see the gore. The other man has never shied away from the grimmer aspects of life but Geralt wants nothing more than to shield him now. He’s put the bard through more than enough, he can’t bear to think that Jaskier, heartbroken and dejected, had to walk down only to find his stuff in the middle of a bloodbath.

He crests the hill and sees Roach. She’s standing at the bottom, unharmed but visibly agitated. There’s blood splattered in the grass all the way down, growing larger and larger. He can see the marks in the grass where someone stumbled, where someone fell, where someone crawled and dragged themselves a bit further down. He sees red. Gods.

He sees red, red, red red redredredred.

Blood splattered in the grass, a smear on Roach’s nose. It’s a handprint. As if someone had reached out to her. Run a hand gently down her face. He can see a body just behind her. Collapsed. Still.

Red.

His brain catches on the image and circles. Catches again. Again. Again.

It doesn’t-he can’t-

Roach whinnies again and Geralt isn’t even aware of his own movements. Isn’t aware of anything until he’s stumbling around her. There’s more blood on her. Arm height. A smear down. Someone falling, catching themselves. Sliding the rest of the way down. Crawling forward. Roach would have _moved_. Would have let no one approach her like that. _Almost_ no one.

His mind catches. Circles again. Catches.

He sees red. Red, red, red. Red splattered on dull brown boots. Expensive red pants. Torn red doublet. Red staining a blue shirt. Red drying. Red. Red. Red red redredredredredred.

He can’t- Geralt can’t-

Crumpled, _discarded_ on the ground is Jaskier. Still and silent and splattered with red. Features lax. Eyes locked on the sky. No. Not locked. No force, no _life._ Just empty blue.

He can’t breath. He doesn’t understand.

There’s _so much blood_.

Someone spilled this blood. Spilled _Jaskier’s_ blood. Splattered it all over the bard and the ground and left Jaskier here, as if he didn’t matter.

Geralt can’t think. Can’t think beyond that. His brain catches on the image. There’s a conclusion that’s right there but he can’t make it, can’t continue the thought. It’s _wrong_. He can’t comprehend it.

So he catches on the second conclusion. _Someone_ did this. Someone spilled this blood and caused the pain that is flooding the area even as it starts to fade.

Jaskier’s blo- _the blood_ is mostly dry, this didn’t just happen. Hours have passed. Everything is shutting off in Geralt’s mind. Everything that won’t help him track down whoever did this. Someone did this.

He kneels next to Jaskier’s bod- _the body_. Reaches out with a hand he refuses to let shake. When he finds whoever did this, he can’t be shaking. Not if he wants to make them bleed and gods he does. He’ll live up to every idea of the Butcher, by _gods_ he will.

Jaski- _the_ doublet falls out of the way easily. He can’t think of how familiar the fabric is. Doesn’t think about it pressed close as he sat, overlooking a vista. Doesn’t think about _we could head to the coast_. Doesn’t think about _life is short_. Fuck. Life _is_ short. Shorter than Geralt can comprehend. 

Beneath the fabric he sees...nothing. Nothing but a chemise stained with blood and sweat. No jagged cuts, no tears revealing gaping wounds. Fucking _nothing_.

Jaskier is just still and silent and bloody. Just like before. Just like the djinn. Just like when Geralt wished for peace and regretted it. When he wished-

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

No. No no no nonononono.

“No.” He hears his own voice, hears the plea slip out on a breath he can’t control.

His hands start shaking.

“Jaskier. Jaskier no.” Roach whinnies again. Jaskier is still. Is silent. Is pale. Is bloody. The conclusion catches in his mind. Drops out in front of him. A vast expanse of a silent and lonely future. “Jaskier get up.” Geralt can’t breath. “ _Please_.”

Jaskier doesn’t move. His eyes listlessly, _lifelessly_ stare up at the sky. Geralt feels something cold beneath his hand and he sees his hand cupping Jaskier’s cheek but the thoughts don’t connect. Jaskier isn’t cold. He can’t be.

Geralt’s scrambling forward, choking on his own heart, on his own insistence that Witcher’s don’t have emotions as he desperately pulls Jaskier into his lap, into his arms. The bard, the _body_ follows easily. No resistance. No anything. 

_Someone_ did this.

Life granted him the blessing he asked for.

 _He_ did this.

Blood is splattered everywhere. The scent of pain drowns everything else out. Not even sandalwood and mint make it through. Too much blood. Too much pain. Too much silence.

Geralt shakes Jaskier once. Twice. A third time. “Jaskier. Jaskier this isn’t funny. Wake up. Jaskier. Jaskier!” His voice fails, can’t get any more words out.

Roach whinnies one more time. Then falls silent. Geralt’s own heart is racing. Fast enough to mimic a normal human heartbeat. But it’s the only one. Jaskier’s chest is still. His heart is silent.

Everything crashes down.

Jaskier is _dead_.

Geralt crumples forward. Feels the still chest, the cold chest of Jaskier, his friend, his constant, _his world_ press against his face. Jaskier is still. 

The burning in his eyes boils over but the tears are slow and few. Jaskier is dead. Jaskier is _gone_ and Geralt can barely fucking cry. The hoarse sob punches out of Geralt.

And Geralt-

  
  
  


And-

  
  
  
  


And, with a grating shout, Geralt jerks awake.

*


	2. in the coming back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt wakes up. Jaskier falls asleep.
> 
> chapter title:  
> I know Houdini’s last lesson by heart.  
> The magic of disappearing acts lies
> 
> in the coming back.  
> -Natalie Wee, Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: blood, violence, description of something akin to a panic attack
> 
> Sorry this took so long. I started making it, had a breakdown*… bon appétit!
> 
> *hey kids, don't make your creative writing thesis be about that one time you had a breakdown and went to a psych ward. It will fuck with your writing. Also, a creative writing major is great because you CAN claim writing fanfiction as studying right up until you actually hafta write your thesis.

Geralt jerks awake with a grating shout and he can’t breathe. Can’t pull in any air. Cold, still weight is draped in his arms, blue eyes staring lifelessly at him, silence stretching out-

A bird calls out and Geralt twists. He twists unencumbered. No weight draped over his legs. The world keels underneath him. Trees dangle and grow sideways across his vision. The sky stretches up and down to his left. He shifts. Dirt and fabric scratch his cheek.

He’s not seated, not curled forward. He’s laying half on his bedroll, half in the dirt, armor still on. The sun is setting, trees obscuring most of the sight. Roach is across the clearing, staring at him.

Images, _memories_ tangle and race through his mind. He remembers descending the mountain, still furious and hurting. Remembers riding Roach through the night, away from the mountain. Remembers traveling past a town before finally turning into the woods. Remembers desperately clinging to his anger.

Remembers desperately clinging to Jaskier’s _corpse_. Remembers blood. Pain. Cold skin and lifeless blue eyes. Remembers begging the bard, pleading.

Remembers pleading blue eyes as the wind whipped around them.

Remembers _life is short_ and _see you around, Geralt_ and _Jaskier, get up, please_.

Remembers and can’t remember. Fuck. _Fuck_.

He’s up on his feet before he can process it. He can’t fucking tell which memories are true. Can’t remember-

Mint breaks through his panic. Sharp and bright and _familiar._

He pulls in a breath. Mint and sandalwood. The smell of rotting wood, decay with no source, twists heavily in. Licorice tea underneath. A fading trail. Someone past a bit ago. Jaskier. And heartbreak. And emotional pain.

But no metallic blood. No bitter, ashy pain.

In the distance, he can hear the muffled sounds of another town.

And-

And then he’s at the town, _in_ the town. Tearing through the streets, chasing mint and sandalwood. Fuck. He can’t tell, can’t stop to think if it’s really there or not. It has to be, he has to actually be smelling mint and sandalwood he has to.

He can’t fucking tell.

The sun has set and with it, the streets of the town have mostly emptied. There are few to get in his way, to stop him, distract him.

He doesn’t know this town, doesn’t know where anything is, but it doesn’t fucking matter. Not as he races through the streets. The scent is getting stronger. It has to be. Has to be real. Has to be.

Light and sound spill out from a building. Ale and sweat and the press of many people. The town tavern. Mint cuts over it. A trace amidst the sweat but sharper a bit further. Geralt follows.

Metallic bites through. Suddenly and forcefully grounding Geralt into the reality around him. It’s not strong, not great amounts. But blood curls in with the mint and sandalwood.

A half muffled thud. A bitten off shout. Harsh laughter.

He draws his sword - steel - without a conscious thought and slides into the alleyway.

Three men are upright. Listing drunkenly and stumbling but upright nonetheless. They’re all tall and strongly built. Insignificant. He doesn’t leave immediately, though. Something in this alley will help him find Jaskier and he fucking needs to figure it out.

The men don’t see him, too busy jeering at something on the ground. They’re between whatever it is and Geralt. And Geralt doesn’t have _fucking time_ for this.

One man stumbles, kicks out. There’s another muffled shout of pain. Geralt looks down-

He sees red, red, red red redredredred.

Expensive, tailored red pants. A matching red doublet. A red smear on pale skin.

He hears the growl before he realizes he’s the one growling. The drunks are too drunk, too captivated by their own actions to notice the sound but blue eyes dart from the attackers to Geralt. 

Jaskier stares back at Geralt, eyes wide. Bright with a dozen emotions.

One of the drunks must move, must kick out again because Jaskier jerks with sudden movement. He curls further in on himself. Bites down to muffle a yelp.

Geralt’s growl turns into a snarl, a furious shout. The drunks whip around but he’s already moving.

It’s not really a fight. The men would possibly be a challenge for the average person. But they’re nothing to a furious and grieving and half-mad Witcher. Geralt is on them before they can truly process it. He forgoes the sword, grabs the first man and drives his fist into the man’s chest. Feels the crack of bone. Ribs, maybe sternum. The man is easily tossed aside. He hits the wall with a howl. But Geralt is already moving on to the next man. Slams the pommel of his sword into a jaw. Kicks his legs out from under him, breaking one - maybe both knees. Takes a moment to bring the flat side of his blade down. Cracking the skull. He whirls on the third man. Handling the first two gave the man long enough to stumble away, to draw a knife. Geralt barely notices, uses his sword. Jabs out, piercing the man’s abdomen. He falls.

None of the men are dead. Yet. They will. They will die in the next few hours, especially if no one finds them.

Geralt doesn’t spare it a thought as he sheaths his sword. Spinning around, choking on his own heart.

Jaskier, at some point, had hauled himself up, staggered backwards. He’s pressed up against the back wall, eyes wide, face pale and bruised.

Geralt can’t fucking breathe. He sees Jaskier there, sees the bard staring at him wide eyed. Sees the blood. Sees the _blood_.

He can’t see past the lifeless eyes. Past the cold _corpse_. He smells mint and sandalwood. He smells the sourceless decay and licorice tea. He smells an hours old corpse and pain and overwhelming blood. He feels cold skin. Hears silence. Feels a still chest, a still heart, motionless lungs.

Jaskier is dead and he’s leaning against the wall staring up at him. Jaskier is silent and still and heaving shallow, rattling breaths. He’s gone. He’s not. Geralt can’t- can’t- can’t-

“Geralt!” There’s a pained groan, a creak of wood. Geralt can’t- can’t focus. “Geralt, you need to listen to my voice.”

The voice. That voice. It pulls at his thoughts, his brain. _Life is short. I’ll see you around_. He’s sure his chest is as still as Jaskier’s. He can’t breathe.

A half-swallowed groan, shifting wood. A weakening voice, “ _Geralt_.” A cough. Jaskier’s corpse moves listlessly at his pulling. Jaskier sways in front of him. Reaches out. “Geralt, please…”

Jaskier’s knees give out. Geralt can’t breathe as he watches the other man - _his_ bard, his _friend_ \- stumble forward. Not stumble. Fall. _Collapse_.

The mashed down grass. The drag marks. The knowledge that Jaskier collapsed, _crumpled_ into the grass. Bleeding and _alone_. _Dying_.

Geralt’s meeting him halfway in the next moment, arms desperately reaching out. He’s in time to catch Jaskier this time. To keep him from dropping to the ground. But the bard yelps in pain. Geralt is in time but he’s not. Jaskier isn’t dead. He’s not. But he’s hurt and Geralt doesn’t know how badly. Doesn’t know how badly the drunks hurt him. Doesn’t know how badly _he_ hurt him.

In his arms, Jaskier is trembling uncontrollably. For a second, Geralt can’t figure out _why_. Is the bard cold? In shock? _Seizing?_ Geralt sinks the rest of the way to the ground. Realizes it’s he who’s trembling. He tucks the bard close, “Jask, _Jaskier._ Don’t clo- stay awake, okay? Stay awake.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice is weakening, the adrenaline no doubt fading rapidly. “You-you’re acting weird.” Geralt can see him struggling to get the words out. He doesn’t know what to do. “The healer. She-she can help you.”

A healer! Gods, he’s fucking useless without Jaskier. Can’t even figure out that he needs to take the wounded man to a healer. He focuses on that part. He has to because otherwise he’ll focus on the fact that, beaten and nearly unconscious, Jaskier’s concern is _Geralt_. He’s worried that _Geralt_ is acting weird. He can see the concern, can see it grow as he tugs him closer. _Fuck_. Jaskier is worried because Geralt’s _giving a shit_. “Where, Jaskier? _Where’s_ the healer?”

“D-dunno.” Jaskier’s eyelids flutter. Close. Struggle to open again. _Fuck_.

Geralt’s breath isn’t coming. Not properly. Jaskier’s breath is rattling in his chest. Geralt’s brain is rattling in his skull. He has to find the healer. Has to get Jaskier out of here. To somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. _Clean_. The inn.

He doesn’t remember arriving in town. It’s a blur of panic, mint, lack of control. He doesn’t know where the inn is. But it’s not that big of town. Large enough to have nicer buildings. Small enough to have only one central street. The tavern is right next door. Any smart town would have the inn nearby. No need for drunks stumbling every which way. And from the inn, he could find the healer. “Jask?” The other man is still looking at him. In the loosest definition of the phrase. His eyes are losing focus quickly, eyelids fluttering closer to closed. Geralt can’t fucking think. “Jaskier!”

It doesn’t work. In between one breath and the next, Jaskier passes out. No dramatics, no half-spoken words. Nothing.

Geralt’s got the dramatics covered. Jaskier’s eyes close and don’t flutter back open and Geralt’s clinging to reality by the thread of hearing a second heartbeat alongside his own. It’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Keeping him sane. Keeping him breathing.

With as much care as he can manage, Geralt rearranges the unconscious bard, tucking Jaskier against his chest with one arm behind his back and the other underneath his knees, before slowly rising to his feet. Jaskier isn’t heavy, not to Geralt who is so flooded with adrenaline and fear and still lingering grief that he may as well have taken a potion. But he is solid and broad and cumbersome. The thought sticks in Geralt’s head as he pauses to resettle his friend. Jaskier has never been some fragile wilting flower. He’s bright, colorful, playful. Quick on his feet and partial to luxurious creature comforts. But he’s not a slight, small man. He’s tall, only barely shorter than Geralt himself. And strong. A far cry from the soft or willowy bodies of many court bards. Jaskier isn’t weak, isn’t a pushover, isn’t incapable. He isn’t-

_Maybe she’ll make a better travel companion, then._

He isn’t an unworthy travel companion.

Before his own words can start cycling through his head, one of the drunks moans. Geralt glances over. There’s no bitter guilt, no acidic shame in him at the sight of the three men. These men hurt _his_ bard. Dared to bring harm to _his_ Jaskier. He doesn’t regret what he’s done. Won’t _ever_ regret this. But he also can’t afford to get chased out of town. Not with Jaskier like this. He’s got to do something.

He peers at the men. Their clothes are unremarkable and drab, their boots worn and well traveled. Two of them still have sacks with them. All signs point towards them being travelers, maybe bandits if the weapons are anything to go by. By the gods, Geralt hopes he’s right. Otherwise they’re fucked.

Still holding Jaskier securely, Geralt kicks the men towards the back of the alley. He doesn’t take joy in the whimpers and moans but it’s a near thing. There’s a pile of various discarded items and debris around and he takes just a few extra moments to nudge them around to better hide the soon to be corpses. The alley is long and narrow, probably shadowed even during the day, not to mention tucked out of the way, but Geralt wants to be sure.

Once done, he turns on his heel and gingerly makes his way back to the street. And maybe life or fate or whatever has decided to change his luck because directly in front of him sits a building well labeled as the town inn. _Thank fuck_.

He’s hesitant to slam the door open. Afraid it’ll anger people he already isn’t sure will be fond of Witchers or worse, jostle Jaskier and cause more pain. So he turns and nudges it with his side. In another stroke of luck, the door is designed to swing open with a push and Geralt easily makes his way into the mostly empty inn.

“Hell-oh my gods!” The young man working jumps up from his stool, eyes wide as he stares at them.

Geralt shuffles in, “Need a room.”

“I’d think you rather need a healer, actually.”

“He’s not dying.” Geralt’s sure of that. Mostly sure. Jaskier’s heart is beating steadily if a touch rapidly. But Geralt has no idea what injuries he actually has. He’s not dying. He’s not. “Room first.”

The young man frowns, nods to himself, “I’ve got a better plan.” Then, without waiting for Geralt to respond, hurries over to a door behind his little counter and leans through it, “Roksana! Go fetch the healer!”

“What did you do, Tomek?” Geralt can hear a slightly muffled voice call back.

“Not for me, would you just-” The inn worker - Tomek apparently - huffs a breath. Geralt sees him glance back at them and a note of urgency fills his voice. “Just go get Anastazja! Now!”

Roksana, whoever she is, must hear the urgency too because Geralt doesn’t hear her answer, just rapid footsteps and the sound of someone leaving in a hurry. Tomek turns back towards them and beckons Geralt towards the hallway at the other end of the small room, “Come on, come on. This way. We’ve got a room just down the hall. Hopefully it’ll work for you.”

Not wasting time or breathe to respond, Geralt follows with as much speed as he can while making sure not to jostle Jaskier too much. The bard is still unconscious but Geralt doesn’t know what his injuries are. Doesn’t know how bad off Jaskier is. Doesn’t know if he’s already made things worse by moving him. Doesn’t know _anything_.

Not far down the hall, Tomek has thrown a door open and waves Geralt in. It’s not-it’s not a small room by any means. Nor is it a shabby one. There’s a fireplace with a fire already starting to grow in it and two decently sized beds. Space to move and store things and a desk tucked under a window Any other time, he’d immediately be suspicious. Immediately be wondering what was going to be demanded in exchange. But now, he barely even takes in the room before he’s making his way to one of the beds and gently laying Jaskier down. Tomek’s over by the fireplace when Geralt turns around, quickly feeding a growing flame. He looks up, “If you can, it may be best if he’s closer to the fire?”

That’s actually a good idea. And Geralt offers a nod before doing exactly that. The bed creaks and groans and the floor protests loudly but Geralt doesn’t care and judging by the way Tomek doesn’t even so much as wince at the sound or look displeased, he similarly doesn’t care. Odd.

“Need some wet cloth.” Geralt knows his voice is gruff. Gruffer than normal. Doesn’t care. Not now.

Tomek just nods and rushes out.

And Geralt is alone with Jaskier. Unconscious and beaten Jaskier.

He needs to do something. Can’t just stand here. Not without dropping to his knees. Not without clinging to Jaskier’s still but breathing body.

Fuck. Gods. _Fuck_.

The fire lights the room brightly and Geralt can take in every detail about the bard’s, _his_ bard’s appearance. And Geralt would give _anything_ to not be able to do so.

Jaskier looks horrible. Skin pale, hair messy, twigs and dirt and mud tangled in. He’s got dark bruises under his eyes and Geralt’s pretty sure they’re not from any blows. Not physical ones. Which is not to say there aren’t any marks from the beating. One is already starting to blossom on his jaw. Another across his collarbone. His clothes are torn and muddy and stained with blood from wounds Geralt hasn’t seen yet. Fuck. His _clothes_. He noticed them earlier but they hadn’t registered. The red fabric is ruined beyond repair but Geralt can recognize it anyway. Jaskier, bright, colorful Jaskier who had long since learned how to weaponize appearance before he ever met Geralt, is still in his clothes from the dragon hunt. Hadn’t bothered to change before coming into a new town. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’s ridiculous. But it’s that realization that sends Geralt stumbling forward. Sends Geralt to drop down next to the bed, heart heavy in his throat and eyes burning.

He wants to clutch at Jaskier. Wants to hold him close. To feel his heart beating and lungs expanding. But he’s _so. Fucking. Scared._ Terrified. Of hurting Jaskier more. Of holding him and feeling _nothing_ again. Of a stilled chest and silent lungs. Of having Jaskier never wake up again. Of having Jaskier wake up and flinch away from Geralt. Of having Jaskier haunted and distant and hurt because of what Geralt did. Of having Jaskier wake up and just _forgive_ Geralt without hesitation. Like Geralt didn’t tear him apart and abandon him to face dangers alone.

He’s so fucking scared.

The door bangs open and Geralt is back on his feet and twisting around in a second. One hand reaching for his sword, the other outstretched in a pathetic attempt of a shield.

Two women are in the doorway, waiting cautiously. One is young and looks notably similar to Tomek. The other is not quite as young, with an air of professional calm about her.

The professional woman moves first, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the on edge Witcher. She brushes past Geralt as she speaks, “I am Anastazja, the town healer. Roksana, go help your brother with the water. You,” she turns to look at him, “help me get these clothes off your friend.”

Roksana is out the door before Anastazja has finished speaking.

Geralt is grateful for the directions. For having a task to focus on. Anastazja starts on Jaskier’s doublet and Geralt isn’t sure he won’t just get in her way so he shifts down. One of Jaskier’s boots slides off easily but the other sticks; a clear sign of swelling, if not broken then badly sprained. He fumbles for his dagger. There’s no other way he’s going to be able get the boot off besides cutting the leather open. He doesn’t want to risk cutting too deep, pulling too hard. It’s delicate work, slicing through the familiar leather. Geralt remembers buying these boots, years ago. Gods, over a decade ago. Jaskier had wintered at some random, unimportant court and the noble had insisted on providing Jaskier with “travel gear” when he left. The stuff had been absolute shit. Geralt had been certain the stuff was designed to break, an attempt to convince Jaskier to return to the court. He’d found a sturdy pair of well crafted leather boots before they had even left the town. It had taken three days for the boots to break though Jaskier hadn’t told Geralt until he’d tripped and nearly broken his leg. Geralt hadn’t even finished yelling at Jaskier before he had chucked the new boots at Jaskier.

And the man still has them. Geralt can see where Jaskier has had them fixed, resoled. At some point, the repairs must have eclipsed the cost of the boots. Yet Jaskier had still kept them.

He can’t afford to think about that. He finishes cutting through the leather. Moves to Jaskier’s trousers. He pours his full attention into the simple task. The more his mind focuses on the task, the less it focuses on cataloging the injuries slowly being uncovered as he and Anastazja work. The less it focuses on the stillness of Jaskier. The silence. The less it is focuses on overlaying the image of Jaskier’s fucking corpse on the unconscious but gloriously alive Jaskier in front of him.

But it doesn’t last forever. In short work, They’ve cut and tugged away Jaskier’s clothing, leaving the other man in just his smallclothes. 

It’s hard to see just how injured the man is with the mud staining Jaskier’s skin. It must have soaked through his clothes and through the tears in the fabric. They need to get him clean. And soon.

In a moment of perfect timing, the door swings open again. Geralt twists in alarm but, like before, finds no threat. Only the tense back of Tomek as he shuffles in. Roksana follows. Between the two of them, their lugging a large tub, water sloshing around, constantly on the brink of spilling over. They’re both muttering the occasional curse. It’s not a quiet endeavor in the slightest. Geralt should have heard them coming. Just like he should have heard Roksana and Anastazja earlier.

Fuck. Any number of threats could walk through that door, all kinds of dangers, and Geralt can’t manage to do his _fucking job._ Can’t manage to pay attention to his surroundings, the first lesson drilled into him at Kaer Morhen. He’s already putting way too much faith in three complete strangers.

“Witcher, you need to eat.” Anastazja’s voice is measured and professional as she dunks a rag into the tub and begins to wash away the mud. Tomek joins her. “Roksana can accompany you to the tavern.”

“I’m not leaving.”

He’s well aware his tone is gruff on the best of days and he doesn’t fault the three for flinching back. He almost welcomes it. It’s familiar ground.

Anastazja stands her ground, though, “You are no help to your friend if you collapse from exhaustion and hunger. Tomek and I will-”

Whatever she’s about to say, about to promise won’t be enough. Nothing will _ever_ be enough to get Geralt to let Jaskier out of his sight again. He’s still clinging to the sounds, the scents, the sights to remind him of reality. Take one away and-

“I’m not leaving!”

Roksana flinches back again, minutely this time, but recovers quickly and huffs a breath, “I will go get food but you will eat it outside this room. You cannot get in Anastazja and Tomek’s way.” She glances at Anastazja who isn’t paying attention anymore. She’s focused on scrubbing away mud and blood. “We’ll keep the door open.”

That’s- he glances around the room. It’s much better lit than it had been when he first entered, one of the three must have lit the lights at some point, and while the room is far nicer than any inn room Geralt has ever stayed in, there is no place for him to really remain out of the way and keep Jaskier in his sights. Roksana’s offer is the best he’s going to get.

Silently, he raises himself up. The mattress gives and then settles back to support Jaskier. An actual mattress. Not straw.

None of this will come cheap but if it will keep Jaskier breathing, keep Geralt from having to hold his bard’s cooling corpse, he’ll pay anything. Maybe Geralt should press, should push. Should find out the price tag. But Jaskier needs help. Help Geralt can’t provide.

The thought is heavy as he shuffles out of the room. Roksana follows as he slides down the wall opposite the doorway. He can still see Jaskier, still watch over. The young woman glances down at him, a look of disapproval clear. Geralt doesn’t tense, but Roksana just huffs again. “At least take your damn boots off. If not for comfort than to at least stop tracking dirt every which way.”

She’s right. He can see his own footsteps tracking down the hall, around the room, back out. His boots are caked in mud and dirt. Blood too. The drunks’ but also Jaskier’s. It’s on his armor. Smears and splatters.

He’s unbuckling and unlacing and untying. Tugging off his boots, his armor, his weapons until they’re a haphazard pile next to him. It’s mindless action. Muscle memory. He keeps his eyes locked on Jaskier.

And waits.


	3. grief and ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt ruminates. Jaskier doesn't say anything but gets heard anyway.
> 
> chapter title:  
> There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.  
> -Pablo Neruda, translated by W.S. Merwin The Song of Despair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: blood, very vague descriptions of injuries, Geralt's self-flagellation, negative self-talk, maybe still borderline panic attack? A lot less so than previous chapters
> 
> The included song is Echo by Jason Walker.
> 
> Hey so like, you guys are the best and the nicest people. Thank you so much for all the support and kind words.

Geralt waits for all of ten minutes before Roksana is back. She’s got a bowl covered by a plate. Smells like some kind of beef stew. Hardy, filling. She walks towards him, stew held towards him, “Should probably ask you your name at some point.”

“Thanks,” he takes the offered bowl without standing and sets it on his knee. Roksana doesn’t move. Keeps staring at him. Her question registers but he stays quiet. It’s not that he’s being contrary exactly. He just doesn’t owe these peo-

He hears Anastazja and Tomek move on to actually assessing Jaskier’s injuries. He can see them working diligently and carefully. He can smell the stew Roksana hurried to get for him. He _does_ owe these people things. He owes them a lot of things.

“Geralt.”

“The White Wolf!” Roksana claps her hands together excitedly and Geralt doesn’t wince but it’s a near thing. A week ago he’d have likely said he was, at best, apathetic about the moniker which would have been a lie; more often than not nowadays, when he gets recognized it’s by that name, not The Butcher. In other towns, when he was just recognized as _a_ Witcher, he’d often be greeted by a shitty rendition of _Toss a Coin_. It was nice, yet a week ago he wouldn’t have admitted that. But a week ago, he hadn’t thoughtlessly torn into Jaskier and then abandoned him to walk down a treacherous mountain alone, hadn’t had the memory of holding Jaskier’s cold and bloody corpse or feeling his still chest. Hadn’t had the memory of his lifeless and dull blue eyes vacant or of Jaskier’s choked, _see you around, Geralt_. 

Silently, he lets his head fall back against the wall. The White Wolf. “Yeah. That’s me.”

Roksana hums eagerly and Geralt can hear her about to start spouting questions. “Are you-”

“I’m not going to answer.” He glances up at her for the briefest of moments before turning back to the room. Only willing to tear his eyes away from Jaskier for half a breath. “Whatever questions you’re about to ask, I’m not going to answer.”

“Well, I-” she cuts off. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt sees her shift from looking at him to looking into the room. “You’re worried. About your friend.”

Instinct, decades of the same response has him responding thoughtlessly, “He’s not my-” _Friend._ He cuts himself off before the word is out of his mouth. 

_Your very best friend in the whole wide world._

_Oh, are we not using “friend”? Yeah, sure. Let’s just give it another decade._

_He’s a…_

_I’m not your friend._

Roksana either isn’t really listening to him or doesn’t give much thought to his shuttered response. Just brightly continues on, “Jaskier, right? The bard?”

Geralt doesn’t reach for his sword, not quite. Just tosses a quick look to make sure it is in reach, not sure how she’s managed to jump from knowing his name to identifying Jaskier. He hadn’t consider these three threats, he’s certain they wouldn’t pose a challenge in a fight but if they’ve been hired by someone, if there are more people waiting-

“Oh how exciting! The White Wolf and his Bard! Anastazja’s been telling Tomek and I stories about you two since we were little! Mind you, she’s not that good of a singer so we’re rather insistent she _not_ try renditions of his songs. But we’ve had a few decent other bards pass through and sing them!” Oh. Right. That. Jaskier’s not the unknown, penniless bard Geralt met in Posada. He’s sought by dozens of courts for performances, asked by many to be their official Court Bard, has his songs sung by others throughout the kingdoms. Yet he’s known as the Witcher’s Bard. The White Wolf’s Bard. _Geralt’s_ Bard. Geralt’s just catching up on what everyone else has known.

Tomek leans out of the room to drop a pile of fabric and it takes Geralt a second to realize it’s Jaskier’s ruined clothes and boots. Mud and blood covered and cut apart, they’re completely unrecognizable from the outfit they had been only days before. He remembers the feel of the embroidery, remembers the spike of humor at the scale pattern, remembers the doublet rucked up as Jaskier slept clutching his lute. An image Geralt only has because he glanced briefly around the campsite before leaving the bard behind, asleep, in a camp full of strangers Geralt didn’t know and hadn’t trusted. God, Jaskier had been _asleep_. The Reavers could have slit the bard’s throat, tossed his body off the side of the mountain. Would Geralt have even fucking noticed? Would he have given the bard the slightest thought? Or would they have left his bloody corpse at the camp? Still and silent.

_Get up. Jaskier. Jaskier this isn’t funny. Wake up. Jaskier. Jaskier!_

Roksana is still rambling but Geralt can’t focus enough to make out the words she’s saying. Gods, he’s such an _idiot_. He can feel the blood, _Jaskier’s blood_ drying on his hands. Tacky and cool. Jaskier, clutching at Geralt’s arm, blood spilling from his lips, the smashed shards of an anaphor Geralt had been foolishly searching for at his feet. Jaskier, unconscious in his arms, bloody and beaten. Jaskier, _dead in his arms_.

Fuck. _Fuck_. How often had Jaskier brazenly strolled into danger, following dedicatedly behind a man who couldn’t bother to call him his friend. The bard had his pick of courts eager to keep him, dozens of noblemen and women who would welcome him into their beds, welcome the chance to court and marry him. And yet, it was Geralt, perpetually gruff and rude and ungrateful Geralt, to whom Jaskier faithfully returned. Faithfully sought out and followed. Geralt wasn’t a fool. It wasn’t coincidence or chance that had them meeting back up. It was Jaskier. It wasn’t destiny or fate or a thoughtless djinn wish. It was Jaskier _choosing Geralt_.

The pile of ruined fabric and leather sat there, motionless and inanimate and accusatory. Expensive fabric, detailed embroidery. Worn leather, patched and resoled. The boots have always been at odds with Jaskier’s outfits. Dull and practical and constant. Geralt can count the number of times he’s seen Jaskier in different shoes on his hands. Only at the highest of courts would he track down another pair. Cintra, for example. He didn’t have any idea how the bard decided on which court was worth the effort of proper shoes and which weren’t. Despite many people’s assumptions, Geralt knows enough about court manners and the likes to get by but his knowledge constantly pales in comparison to the ease with which Jaskier follows the intricacies and rules. He wouldn’t say that’s where Jaskier _belongs_. Where Jaskier thrives and shines. No, that would be in the taverns and towns, in the forests and the random fields of wildflowers the man unerringly always seems to find. Jaskier was made for being the famous wandering bard. Flitting from courts to rundown taverns and back. But Jaskier does know the ways of being at court like the back of his hand. Somehow always knows the gossip and who to tell it to and who not. Never gets caught up with the wrong title or how many people seem completely okay with marrying their cousin. At least not to their faces for that last one. It’s almost as if Jaskier was-

 _Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove_.

Oh _yeah_. The memory is recent and also terribly incomplete. Geralt knows Jaskier said that when introducing himself to the rest of the fucking dragon hunt but Geralt can’t for the life of him remember what he said before or after. Geralt didn’t even process the rather important information at the time.

Jaskier _is_ a noble. He was raised _in_ a court. No wonder he could move through courts with ease and grace, he’d grown up following those rules and intricacies. Geralt had spent enough time at events for various courts to know that there, words were as dangerous as his swords, if not more. He’d heard Jaskier joke countless times about words being his weapon where Geralt had his swords and his potions but it’s suddenly clear to Geralt that those _weren’t jokes_. Every time Jaskier had implied as such, Geralt had - as he was wont to do with seemingly everything to do with the bard - scoffed and dismissed the comments.

Gods, he really _didn’t_ pay attention to Jaskier, did he? How much did he not know? How much had Jaskier told him only to have Geralt not liste-

Pleasant humming interrupts his thoughts, pulls him out of his head. Pretty much no time has passed, Roksana seems to have just finished up her ramblings and turned to humming a song Geralt _thinks_ he’s heard before - maybe from Jaskier - but he’s really not sure. Quietly, she starts singing. Her voice isn’t much, pleasant enough he’d say, but the song is soft, melancholic.

 _“Hello, hello_ _  
__Anybody out there? ‘Cause I don’t hear a sound._ _  
__Alone, alone_ _  
__I don’t really know where the world is but I miss it now.”_

Geralt sees Tomek glance over from the other room. He’s been so busy just focusing on keeping his eye on Jaskier, even while his mind scrutinizes his many mistakes, that he hasn’t really been tracking Tomek and Anastazja’s progress. It looks like they’ve finished up on the superficial wounds, if the fact that Tomek was pulling out more serious supplies before he heard Roksana start singing is anything to go by. Anastazja nudges him and he goes back to what he was doing.

 _“I’m out on the edge and I’m screaming my name_ _  
__Like a fool at the top of my lungs_ _  
__Sometimes when I close my eyes I pretend I’m alright_ _  
__But it’s never enough_

 _‘Cause my echo, echo_ _  
__Is the only voice coming back_ _  
__Shadow, shadow_ _  
__Is the only friend that I have”_

Roksana’s singing grows louder, less aware of her surroundings as the song progresses. Geralt’s seen Jaskier get like this countless times. Focused on the music, the words, the sounds that he’ll forget he was plopped in front of a fire at their camp. More often than not, Geralt would nudge - occasionally rather harshly - him back to awareness. Sometimes a snide comment tacked on.

 _“Listen, listen_ _  
__I would take a whisper if that’s all you had to give_ _  
__But it isn’t, is it?_ _  
__You could come and save me and try to chase the crazy right out of my head”_

He feels himself tilt his head at the lyrics, almost subconsciously. It’s a good song, soft but full of emotion. A depth to it that most songs he hears in taverns or at courts don’t have. The loneliness and pleading is haunting, an ache that is near tangible. There’s something oddly familiar about it. He’s sure he’s heard it before but he can’t figure out _where_. One of the bardic competitions he’s begrudgingly accompanied Jaskier to maybe? It would make sense. The song reminds him of the kinds that Jaskier would sing at those competitions. Or with tavern crowds that were either very drunk or more attentive to Jaskier actually singing instead of getting shitfaced. Geralt had never told Jaskier he preferred those times. He rarely told Jaskier anything he felt about his singing outside of _pie without filling_.

 _“I’m out on the edge and I’m screaming my name_ _  
__Like a fool at the top of my lungs_ _  
__Sometimes when I close my eyes I pretend I’m alright_ _  
__But it’s never enough_

 _‘Cause my echo, echo_ _  
__Is the only voice coming back_ _  
__Shadow, shadow_ _  
__Is the only friend that I have_

 _I don’t wanna be an island_ _  
__I just wanna feel alive and_ _  
__Get to see your face again.”_

Anastazja’s kneeling on the bed and Geralt can see the glint of a needle, Jaskier needs stitches. The song echoes in his head and he feels a pang of sympathy for the songwriter. Their yearning for this other person is clear in just the words. So is their dejection. Their acceptance of forever being overlooked by the other. A kind of tragic Geralt would normally deny feeling. He bites back a groan, imagining when Jaskier hears this song - the man seems to find most every song - and hates how much it fits how he’s treated the bard.

 _“I don’t wanna be an island_ _  
__I just wanna feel alive and_ _  
__Get to see your face again._

 _But ‘til then,_ _  
__Just my echo, my shadow_ _  
__You’re my only friend and I’m-”_

“Where’s that song from?” He doesn’t really mean to cut her off. But the question is out before he really registers it.

Roksana doesn’t respond and he opens his mouth apology on the tip of his tongue because of course he can apologize to a fucking stranger but he hasn’t _once_ been able to apologize to the one person who remains steadfast. Of course not. He turns to look up at her but she’s not looking at him with annoyance. No, her expression is a mix of bewilderment and hesitancy, “Well, it’s, uh- it’s one of Jaskier’s songs.”

“Finished up in here.”

Anastazja and Roksana speak pretty much simultaneously and Geralt hears both clearly, but for a moment, he understands neither. The lyrics are cycling in his head. The feelings. It was _Jaskier’s_ song.

And he could go see him.

He’s scrambling up the moment the words click in his head, any grace or care forgotten as he throws himself forward. It takes him all of five, stumbling strides to get into the room and to the bed. Distantly, he hears Tomek leave the room to join Roksana in doing something, he doesn’t really care. Anastazja remains in the room. But Geralt doesn’t care.

At some point, either Tomek or Anastazja must have brought the blankets from the other bed over and somehow switched them out since the covers on the bed are clear of blood and mud and the other bed is stripped bare. For a moment, it’s all he can focus on. The spotless blanket and the steady, strong heartbeat that’s _real_. Jaskier is here in front of him. Alive and breathing steadily.

“He’s going to be okay.” Anastazja steps up next to him. “Most of his injuries are superficial. Dislocated ankle and the stab wound to his shoulder are the worst of it.”

There’s a snide comment on the tip of his tongue - stab wounds are far from superficial, especially for a human - but Geralt swallows it back. Would not be his best choice at the moment. Instead he hums an appreciative sound, staring down at his unconscious bard.

Anastazja turns towards him and he chances a glance over at her. Her expression is stern, her tone, when she speaks again, harsh, “I said his wounds were superficial. Boy’s driven into the ground with exhaustion. Dehydrated, as well. And, if I were a betting woman, I’d bet he’s been going on an empty stomach far too long.”

“I didn’t-” The excuse dies on his lips. Humans weren’t as...sturdy as Witchers. He knew Jaskier had eaten the night before finding the dragon. But beyond that, he has no clue for nearly two days. He’d been gone before Jaskier had awoken and then, well...

“I didn’t mean that as an accusation.” Anastazja backtracks with an apologetic shrug, “The bard’s an adult. He makes his own choices.”

Geralt would agree. Does agree. Usually. But emotions make people act irrationally. Forget to eat or rest or take even a sip of water. That’s on Geralt.

The healer sighs, “He’ll be okay. Just needs to heal and rest up. Hearty meal and lots of water.” She shifts, glances over Jaskier one last time, “Now it’s late as fuck and I’m tired. I trust you’re going to stay in here?”

He gives an affirmative grunt and remains standing. Anastazja stares at him for a moment longer before she turns and heads out, closing the door behind her. Geralt’s left alone with Jaskier, unconscious and motionless on the bed before him, the song still echoing in his head.

_Sometimes when I close my eyes I pretend I’m alright but it’s never enough._

The bard is laid out on top of the blankets, stripped down to his small clothes and bandages. Crisp white is wrapped around his chest, stretching from his shoulder - strips are hitched over top of it to secure over the stab wound on his right chest- down to his ribs where there are four parallel gashes opposite the stab wound. His left ankle is splinted. Geralt’s fair sure it’s not broken, just sprained. He’s got a basic guess of what happened; Jaskier left the tavern, got surprised by the men, stabbed in the right shoulder and dragged into the alley. Kicked around from there.

There’s bruises smattered around his body. A few on his face. Some visible around the bandages. Geralt knows there’s more underneath. He can’t stop staring at Jaskier’s lax face. There’s no blood around Jaskier’s mouth. Not here. Not now. There is in Geralt’s memories. Twice over.

He can’t get the image out of his fucking head. _Either_ of the images. Jaskier laid out on the bed in Rinde, blood stained and motionless. A moment of peace, unaware of the foolish wish Geralt would make. Jaskier laid out on the grass beside Roach, blood stained and motionless. A lifetime of loneliness in front of Geralt, because of a foolish demand Geralt had made. He knows it wasn’t real, _knows_ this moment is.

But every time he blinks, the image is carved into his eyelids. Every time he moves his hands, he feels Jaskier’s skin, cold and tacky with blood, beneath his finger tips. Every time he shifts his weight, he feels the weight of a limp body in his lap. Every time he-

_You could come and save me_

It’s not that his legs give out, but Geralt does drop heavily to the ground, sinking to sit next to the bed. Next to Jaskier.

He lets his head lean forward, hitching his chin on the bed. He’s level with Jaskier’s shoulder, can tilt his head just a touch to stare at the bard’s profile. The other, his hands, chest, legs. Geralt stares straight ahead. Besides the bandages and blooming bruise, Jaskier’s shoulder is an expanse of pale skin. A bit of dark hair awkwardly mushes out from under the wrappings. But no shallow little nicks. Scabbed over scratches.

He’s got them on his hands. A few on his face. Ones that are settled in. A day old at least. These didn’t come from drunks. But from branches and brush and stumbling down a mountain alone and _heartbroken._

Geralt’s at fault for those.

Geralt’s at fault for all of this.

“Fuck, _Jaskier_.” His voice is trembling as badly as his hand as he reaches out towards the bard’s face. He desperately wants to touch him and is desperately afraid of shattering the moment. Geralt is not a tender man and Jaskier, strong bright Jaskier, is so fucking _fragile_ in this moment.

_Life is short._

Soft, warm skin brushes his fingers and Geralt only just keeps himself from reeling back. His hands are shaking so much they can’t maintain the distance and tremble just above Jaskier’s face. Slipping the barest bit down occasionally.

It’s not Jaskier who’s fragile. The bard is injured and torn emotionally raw but it’s _Geralt_ who’s fragile. Geralt who’s shaking apart on the floor of a strange inn, reliant on the kindness of strangers. It’s grating and unfamiliar and terrifying.

The thing is...the thing is, it’s wrong to say that Witchers are only ever met with disgust and hatred and fear and repulsion. Even before Jaskier, before his songs and his unwavering defense of Geralt and Geralt’s brothers, there were moments of kindness, of gratitude, of acceptance and compassion. As few and far between as they were, they did happen. And yes, some were tricks, attempts to catch a Witcher unaware. But some were genuine.

But that was never enough to be reliant on. Never enough to trust help that wasn’t agreed upon and bartered for first.

Yet there was no trick with Jaskier. Twenty years and the only thing Jaskier had looked for in return was friendship. Sure the occasional hand in dealing with angry spouses or inspiration for songs. Things Geralt had so often used to explain away Jaskier’s continued presence. But he knows that’s not true. Has known that for years now. The other man’s got material for lifetimes to come and is a deft hand at talking himself out of danger. Or climbing out of a window with unmatched agility if needed.

Jaskier stayed, not because he needed Geralt, not because some stupid destiny or thoughtless wish. Jaskier stayed because he _wanted to_.

And Geralt had thrown that back into Jaskier’s face so many godsdamned times.

 _I would take a whisper if that’s all you had to give._ _  
__But it isn’t, is it?_

His shoulders sag, his breath catches, there’s never needed to be a rumor that Witchers can’t cry because everyone always says that Witchers can’t feel and there’s tears burning the back of Geralt’s throat. He’s barely swallowing back a sob.

There’s a soft groan. Half swallowed up by the errant sounds of an inn at night but there nonetheless. And Geralt’s heard groans like this more than enough to identify a person on the blearly edge of awareness.

His eyes snap up.

Blue stares shakily back.

There’s a half-temptation to call it miraculous but Geralt knows it’s not. Anastazja said Jaskier’s injuries weren’t as severe as Geralt had feared. That the bard was exhausted and dehydrated and a dozen other things that could get worse but won’t. It’s not miraculous that Jaskier is awake. It’s just a weird little quirk of humans.

And it shakes the sob out of Geralt’s chest. Sends it shuttering through him.

“Ger’lt?”

He’s heard this sleep roughness a thousand times before. Jaskier’s far from eager to get up most mornings and yet in this moment it tugs another mostly choked back sob loose. The sounds aren’t clear. Just wet rumbles and he sees the moment Jaskier slips into more awareness because his eyes widen and a broken moan curls out of the bard’s chest. Geralt’s got a guess on what the other man is going to say.

It’s still swallowing broken glass when Jaskier’s voice stutters, “Ger’lt, Ger’lt, m’sorry. ‘Ll get out your hair. I’ll go.”

There’s no attempt to push himself up, Geralt’s not sure Jaskier is even aware enough to realize he’s lying down, let alone try to get up, but Jaskier does try to shift, does try to pull away. It’s not a flinch, it’s not a movement of fear. Jaskier isn’t, even in this moment, afraid of Geralt in the slightest. It’s an attempt to accommodate _Geralt_.

His hands are still trembling but there’s no hesitation when he reaches out this time. Jaskier doesn’t flinch now either but he does moan apologetically, as if he’s the one reaching out. Geralt’s voice evens itself out, “Sh, sh no Jaskier, no Jaskier. You’re okay, just- just stay here, stay still.” It’s one of the things no expects a Witcher to be trained in but there’s been countless times where Geralt’s had to calm down some unlucky bastard who’s just stumbled away from a monster run in. Jaskier always just smiles softly when it happens. Sometimes he steps up besides Geralt to help but, unless Geralt is black-eyed and blood drenched or half-dead, it’s always just to help.

It doesn’t calm the bard down, he’s still too out of it. “Don’ mean t’ be a burden. Always a burden.”

“Rest Jaskier. Just- just sleep.”

The bard mutters one last thing, too mumbled, too incoherent for Geralt to make out and he’s almost grateful for that. The tears are still burning his eyes. He’s not choking back sobs anymore but he is choking on the broken apologies from Jaskier. Exhausted and beaten, the bard is sorry he’s _burdening Geralt_. Sorry, he’s not gone from Geralt’s life like Geralt shouted at him, like Geralt is so afraid Jaskier will be once he actually wakes up.

Blue eyes flutter closed but Jaskier’s heartbeat is steady and strong. Familiar. Comforting. He’s asleep and _okay_ and Geralt can finally breathe. Can close his eyes and see Jaskier hurt but resting safely instead of seeing him broken and _dead._

So, Geralt settles. He won’t sleep, doesn’t think he _can_. But Jaskier deserves an apology, deserves Geralt to actually _talk_ to him. Deserves Geralt to have at least some of his shit together and be rested enough to accept whatever Jaskier decides to do.

And with Jaskier’s heartbeat and breathing steady in his ears and his hand solid and _warm_ in his own, Geralt lets his eyes fall closed and lets himself fall into meditation.

There’s no telling what the morning will bring but Geralt won’t move from Jaskier’s side before then.


End file.
